


Hell's Kitchen High: The Case of Chelsea Blancher

by Entropyrose



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 19:12:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7813780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Entropyrose/pseuds/Entropyrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three days after a college student is found dead on the floor of her sorority house, seventeen-year-old Junior Detective Matt Murdock is on the case! He has a hunch about the guilt of the last person she was seen with---the notorious 22-year old Frank Castle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hell's Kitchen High: The Case of Chelsea Blancher

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dragonspell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonspell/gifts).



> This is an alternate universe fic where Matt, Karen and Foggy are high school students and Frank Castle is a college student attending the University directly across from the high school. 
> 
> Also, look Draggie! No Non-con! :)

“I have a very bad feeling about this, guys.” Foggy purposefully trailed a little behind his two friends along the sidewalk to the College. “I mean, maybe we should leave the investigating to the police, right? They have all the training and equipment and stuff, plus when they investigate, it isn’t, you know, illegal?”

“Go back, then,” Matt hissed in a harsh whisper, crouching into the hedges that bordered Collen’s University, feeling along the fence. “Wait for us in the car.” 

“Karen?” Foggy chirped, giving her this look as if she was the last voice of reason. 

“I know you’re scared,” She offered, touching Foggy’s arm lightly. “Trust me, everything will be okay. I have a night class here on Tuesdays, so if anyone spots us, I could just claim I forgot my books.” 

“Not scared,” he muttered, glancing up at the looming wall of foliage. 

Less than three days prior, the body of Chelsea Blancher had been discovered by her fellow sorority sisters in the upstairs bedroom of the Chi Omega house on Collen University’s campus. Word spread like wildfire. Matt and Foggy were both Seniors and members of Hell’s Kitchen Junior Detectives at Hell’s Kitchen High. Naturally, Matt gained immediate personal interest in solving the case, and Foggy followed suit, if only to keep his friend out of trouble. 

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Foggy murmured, reluctantly following the wave of Matt’s hand as he disappeared into the brush. “Have you forgotten just where it is we’re headed?” 

He stuck his hand out for Karen to grab, and helped her through the small hole in the fence. Just like that, they were on the lawn of the campus. The Dean had ordered brighter lights installed in the walkway lamps after the discovery of the girl’s body. It would no doubt complicate things as all three of them attempted to make their way through the campus and into the men’s dormitory. It was little surprise to Foggy that Matt made his way around even better at night. Something about his “sonar” capabilities not being bogged down by the noise and commotion that came with daylight. They snuck into a little alcove along a towering building—must have been one of the oldest on Campus—and Matt dug through the small black backpack he had brought with him. 

“I want you two to stay here,” he ordered. 

“No way,” Karen said, planting both feet as she stuck out her hip for affect. She crossed her spindly arms in front of her and glared. “You will need me as your excuse if you get busted.” 

“She’s right,” Foggy murmured, keeping half and eye out for any passers-by. “Besides, how are you going to know when you reach--?” 

“Trust me,” Matt assured him. “I’ll know.” 

Matt had spent the better part of the last three days brushing up on the case; that included learning the layout of the campus* and the distance of the crime scene from various points, and one very promising point in particular; the dorm room of one Francis Castiglione. According to the news, the cops hadn’t officially named him as a suspect yet, but he was Chelsea Blancher’s fellow college student and the last person to see her alive. 

In Matt’s book, that was good enough. While the cops were scraping and scrounging up a search warrant, Matt would be on his way to the police station with a file full of evidence. Not to say the guy was guilty for sure, because that wouldn’t be fair—in the system, it was “Innocent Until Proven Guilty”—but Francis Castiglione was not just an average College student. Not even close. In Hell’s Kitchen, he was downright infamous, known by a far more fitting name: 

Frank Castle. 

Frank was an ex-con. At the ripe old age of 18, he had been sent to prison for setting a fire that killed three dog fighters. Rumor had it, it wasn’t the arson itself that had killed the gang members, and Matt’s extra-curricular research lent itself to a stunning conclusion: all three bodies had been found with charred bottles duct-taped to their skeletal hands, indicative of Molotov cocktails. After breaking in and setting every dog free, Frank had burned them alive. 

Thanks to some legal magic from a team of lawyers hired by an animal rights advocacy group, Frank was released on good behavior from the State Prison’s mental health ward. He had served just over four years of a 35-year sentence. 

Matt made his way into the dorms with relative ease, even as he heard Karen stumble behind him. For him, it was dark all the time, and for a moment he had forgotten just why she might be having so much trouble. They ducked into a hallway when Matt heard footsteps coming, and they waited in the darkness for the security guard to pass. “You sure this is the right one?” 

“Yeah, “ Karen said, squinting down into her notebook. “Room Three-0-Seven.” 

“Okay,” he whispered, patting her knee as they knelt on the floor. “Wait here.” 

“Be careful. This guy is a murderer.” Matt wasted no time in heading for the dorm room door. “Matt--!” Karen called back in a harsh rasp, but it was too late. Matt was across the hall, a lock-picking set in his hand, and fiddling with the door handle. 

To his surprise, it was unlocked. Matt frowned, but turned the handle silently and pushed open the door. His sonar picked up the sleeping form on the single twin bed in the room, a heartbeat with a rhythm that was steady and slow. Asleep.

Matt sucked in a slow breath for courage, tightening the black bandanna around his eyes, and slipped inside, closing the door easily. 

Matt had abilities beyond what his friends or even family knew. While his blindness might have set him apart in some ways, it drew his world together to form a picture so crisp, so vivid, that it made sight seem like a disability. He slithered silently on his belly, his bare fingertips brushing against the cheap, high-traffic carpeting. He could smell well-oiled leather, lots of it, and the residue of grease and gun-powder. His eyes flashed. What kind of ex-con was allowed to carry a gun? He tipped one ear upward like a cat, listening for any changes in the soft snore of the dorm’s inhabitant. 

He felt along the bottom bed post, soon finding a dainty trinket dangling from it. He blinked and took it in his fingers, feeling the delicate edges. A cross. Seven diamonds. The chain was much too slender to be a man’s. He slipped the chain off easily, unhooking the tiny clasp and gathering it into his pocket. Maybe he decided to keep a souvenir of his kill. Matt stifled the growl he felt rumbling in his throat. Murdering gang-bangers was one thing, but an innocent girl? He shook his head, clearing it, getting back to the task at hand. He flattened himself to the floor when he heard the body on the bed shift, and froze. 

A long, sleepy groan was produced, the heart rate ebbing, and a blast of breath slipped between two pouty lips as the form drifted back to sleep. 

Matt blew out the breath he was holding in and continued on to the center of the room. He found a box, next, and after searching the contents, found only scraps of paper that felt like post cards and a few note books. Nothing conclusive. He found a few articles of clothing in the drawers, next, folded with military precision and decided they, too, led nowhere. Everything seemed to have its place and Matt was looking for something, anything, that would jump out at him. He dared to slide his hand up the bedpost that the sleeping form faced. He had never met the notorious Frank Castle, but the stories alone were enough to produce a knot in his stomach the size of a basketball. His fingers touched leather, and it produced an unexpected “creek” as he grabbed it a little too tightly. 

He froze again, but the body in the bed didn’t stir. 

He found a pocket and snaked his hand inside. He found the cool metal of keys, the soft, scarred touch of a square leather wallet, the leafy feel of a few bills of cash, and some round coins at the bottom. Onto the next one. Thick patent leather gloves. Matt scowled. Who wears winter-thick gloves in 60 degree weather? Inside the jacket, now—the lining worn and slick like fake silk, a small slit—a hidden pocket. Matt’s eyes flashed. His fingers slid easily inside and reached a folded piece of paper, just as muscular fingers like a vice clamped around his wrist. 

Matt let out a little squeak as he was hoisted up, going airborne for a few frightening seconds before his back connected with the wall behind him. There was a guttural growl and hot breath in his face, and the owner of the iron restraint now squeezed down on his neck. “Who the fuck are you?” 

“Pl-please—!” Matt squealed pathetically. “Don’t kill me!” His legs kicked in the air as he struggled to break free. 

He was rewarded with another back-slamming, the walls behind him rattling as his shoulder blades dug into the cheap drywall. “Who the FUCK are you?,” The lanky guy asked again. 

“Matt!” He choked out. “My name is Matt!” Weightlessness ensued as he was sent sailing across the room, landing onto the thin mattress of the bed, on top of the rumpled sheets. He heard a lamp flick on, and light stabbed his senses through his eye sockets as the guy tore his bandanna off. “Owh…,” He groaned, burying his face in his bent arm. The taller boy wrenched his head back, setting Matt’s scalp aflame as he mercilessly dug his fist into his hair. He let out another pathetic cry. 

He froze, planting his back against the wall as his attacker loomed over him, inspecting him. “Just a kid,” The guy said finally, releasing Matt’s head with a shove. 

Matt fought the urge to bury his head in his arm again. As the assailant took a seat across from him and lit a cigarette. 

“There’s—There’s no smoking allowed in the dorms,” Matt said softly. 

Frank snuffled a laugh through his nose as he took a long drag and blew it in Matt’s face. “Ohhh man. That is fuckin’ adorable.” 

Matt coughed dryly. 

“So tell me, Spike.” 

Matt’s eyes were still half closed but his head quirked sideways. “Spike?,” he repeated incredulously. He consciously touched the hardened tips of his hair and frowned at the nickname.

Frank ignored him. “What’re you doing in my room?” 

“It’s not your room,” Matt muttered, mustering some of his courage back. “Technically, it belongs to the Univ—“ 

A fist landed in the wall just left of his ear, making Matt jump. “Don’t get all technical on ME you little SHIT---“ Frank flicked his cigarette on the tray on the bed-stand and balled up a fist-full of Matt’s black tee shirt.  
Matt scrambled against the wall as much as possible, flattening his back and leaning away from the smoky smell of Frank’s wrath. “Now the way I see it, you’ve got two options. Either you can tell me what you’re doing in MY room, or…” His voice drifted away. 

“Or what?” Matt said, unable to help the curiosity creeping in. 

A crooked smile spread across Frank’s lips, his eyes locking on to the cowering high-schoolers’. “Did you know there are twenty-seven bones in the human hand?” Matt wanted to nod his head but feared the consequences, so he remained still. “And seven hours left till daylight.” Frank shrugged for affect, his lips curling downward into a sarcastic pout. “That leaves us with a lot of time to get to know each other.”   
Matt gasped as a fist curled around his ring and pinky fingers and twisted backward. He shrieked, his entire body curling into a ball towards the direction of the pull, as he felt the muscles strain and the bones begin to bend unnaturally backward. 

“Stop!” He shouted. “Stop, okay!?” 

“This about Chelsea? Huh? You little punk?!” 

Matt wailed, his foot curling in to kick at Frank’s knee, anything to lessen the pain. “Yes!” He hissed, his eyes burning into Frank’s. “Yes, okay!? You murdering sonofabitch!” 

Frank released him slowly, returning to the chair across from the twin-size bed. He let out a soft laugh and picked up his cigarette again, taking a slow drag on it. “So, what’re you, Nancy-Fucking-Drew or something?” 

“Something like that,” Matt lashed back with a sneer. “Better than what you are.” 

Frank’s eyebrow twitched upward, intrigued. “Oh are you? Cuz uh…” Frank looked around, as if there was anyone else around to tell the secret to, “I don’t go sneaking into other people’s rooms at night on some bullshit fantasy hunch.” 

“You were seen with her last,” Matt said, emboldened. “You were with her three hours before her roommate found her dead on the floor. That’s not a lot of time for error.” 

Frank shrugged. “Maybe.” He put his cigarette out on the tray. “But it doesn’t take three hours to kill someone.” 

Matt felt a shiver run through him. Frank’s breathing had changed; it was now raspy, heady—palpable. Matt had nearly forgotten that he had broken into the dwellings of a killer. “You would know, wouldn’t you.” It was not a question. 

“Yeah.” Frank said softly. “Yes I would.” 

A silent pause was shared between the two. Matt rubbed his aching hand and listened intently to Frank’s solid heartbeat. 

“I didn’t kill her,” Frank said finally, snapping each word out of his mouth. The steady thrum of his heart was unchanging. 

“I believe you,” Matt said. “Just one thing…” 

“What?,” asked Frank. 

Matt dug the delicate chain and cross out of his pocket, dangling it for Frank to see. “Is this…” He swallowed, correcting himself. “Was this…hers?”

Frank’s eyes flashed a dark black as he grabbed the chain. “Little punk..,” he muttered, stuffing it into his leather jacket that still hung on the post of the bed. “Yes, okay? It was Chelsea’s. She used to visit me when I was in the box.” 

Matt cocked his head quizzically. 

“That means prison, you dope.” Frank shook his head. “Anyway, when I got out, she gave it to me. Said it would give me good luck.” He let out a bitter laugh, glancing down at his feet. “I guess she needed it more than I did, huh?” 

“I’m sorry,” Matt said, as if he were comforting a mourning friend instead of accusing a possible murderer. 

“Me too.” Frank stood up suddenly, and Matt crouched a little on the bed as if waiting for the next blow to come. Instead, Frank glanced down at him, the anger in his face having subsided, unclenching his fists. “That all, Spike?” He extended an open hand down to the boy on his bed. 

Matt wanted so badly to ask about the three dog fighters, the guys he had tied the Molotovs to and set ablaze. But his curiosity could not override his cautious relief that he was actually making it out alive and in one piece. He nodded his head and timidly placed his hand in Frank’s. His grip was wide and soft and Matt frowned as he felt the heat rush to his face. “Can I uh—can I have my bandana back?” Frank slipped the cotton cloth into his hands wordlessly and Matt hurriedly fastened it around his eyes. “It’s the uh—it’s the light,” he offered. 

“Sure,” Frank said coolly. 

Matt turned to leave, gathering his small back pack and pulling the door open. 

“And Spike?” 

Matt froze, not daring to correct Frank on his actual name. 

“Come here again and I will break you.” 

Matt didn’t stay to question exactly what the taller guy was referring to, instead giving him a sharp nod and disappearing around the corner and down the empty hallway.

He wasn’t sure who had killed poor Chelsea Blancher, but all of his instincts told him it wasn’t Frank Castle. Killer though he was, Matt had detected not one lie from Frank’s lips. And something inside told him, this was not the last time he would see the notorious Frank Castle.

**Author's Note:**

> * I picture Matt learning the layout by having Foggy help him build a set with popsicle sticks, cups and boxes.


End file.
